Killer Mike is definitely going to read this, so let me just take a moment to wish him a good afternoon. After all, in the time since we spoke, Mike announced on Twitter that if you're writing about his ferocious new album R.A.P. Music, he will see it, and you will be judged accordingly. The chin-check may seem like a wholly unnecessary form of intimidation coming from a very, very large individual who happens to go by the name "Killer Mike." But the truth is, spend any amount of time talking to the guy and it's abundantly clear just how much he cares. And when he cares, he gets involved directly.

He's not a control freak, just a guy who wants to make sure he's fully prepared to get the last (winning) word in, whether it's about his political views, taking his wife to "the five-dollar strip club," collaborating with El-P on every song on his new album, or the often-soul-impoverishing forum of internet hip-hop discourse. That goes a long way towards explaining why R.A.P. Music is a concise and hands-on record-- an album for rap nerds by a rap nerd, combining the both the righteousness of "conscious" rap and the righteousness of rap that makes you want to beat some unconscious.

"I don't accept the term 'political rapper' because I don't give a damn about either political party. I give a damn about the people."

Pitchfork: You've been calling R.A.P. Music your "classic album"-- do you feel like there was an urgency for you to have that sort of thing under your belt?

Killer Mike: I've made classic records, and going into making R.A.P. Music, I was determined to top the entire legacy of the Pledgeseries, and the fact that I won a Grammy, and the fact that I was associated with OutKast, and the fact that I'm a Dungeon Family member. I needed a piece of work to set me totally outside of the previous work I put in. That's the mindset with each new album: I need to kill the last version of me.

KM: There's a huge void. I'm here if an audience wants to hear it. And when I say "an audience," I'm not chasing the audience that all [other] artists are chasing now. I'm chasing the rap-lovers audience. That goes for my 17-year-old son to my 57-year-old uncle. They both love this record for the same fundamentals: dope lyrics, dope beats, dope concepts, dope topics, storytelling, lyricism. That's who this record is for.

Pitchfork: Looking at your career, it seems like the 2006 song "That's Life" really inspired you to move away from making more commercial records, like your 2003 solo debut Monster, and become more politically-based.

KM: I don't think I'm more politically-based as much as socially-based. My grandmother died on February 29th, and she kept all of my magazine and newspaper scraps, every interview. I've been in the newspapers since I was about 15-- not for rapping, but for real substantive stuff I was doing in the community, organizing around gang violence in the schools. So I had already made my grandma proud before I was on TV. I've always been who I am.

But, with Monster, I was a young artist trying to satisfy the artists that signed me, and a record label, and the fans at times. When I left the majors and went into making the first Pledge, "That's Life" was one of the last records we recorded. I just went in and did it. I didn't write it down. It was substance, it was lyrically dope, it was everything a rap record should be. And that's very much the seed that created the social commentary I give. I don't accept "political rapper" because I don't give a damn about either political party. I give a damn about the people. My rap comes from a sociological standpoint rather than picking a particular side or dogma or ideology. I just want people to be free to do what they want, as long as they don't harm others.

"You'll always see me at a political rally and the black strip club;
I'm gonna represent smoking weed and supporting Trayvon
Martin on my record, because I'm a whole man."

Pitchfork: On R.A.P. Music, the song "Reagan" goes against Democrats and Republicans. Do you think there's any pressure from the hip-hop community to take sides one way or the other?

KM: If by "hip-hop" you mean "black," yeah-- from a black standpoint, there is [pressure]. Ninety-eight percent of blacks voted for President Obama. That means these people are tied to that political party in a way that's different from other groups of people. Certain rappers always want to represent the Democratic side because they know that's safe and that's what represents their community. I tend to just do what I feel is right by all people. Period.

Pitchfork: Do you think the way rap addresses politics has changed?

KM: Ultimately, Dead Prez should have went multi-platinum. But when people didn't rally around them, I knew the black hip-hop audience had become far less politicized. I just don't know if Americans give a damn about anything past a shopping mall. And that's all Americans on all levels. I can't expect rappers to be politicized when Americans are not socially motivated enough to care about their own lives and public policy as much as they were even 20 years ago. But I'm compelled to make the music I make regardless.

Pitchfork: I think people stopped taking Dead Prez as seriously when they released "Mind Sex". When you make more violent songs like "Big Beast" or "Southern Fried", do you think that might detract from your more overtly political material, like "Don't Die"?

KM: I always make records to reflect my full humanity. Nikki Giovanni had this poem describing her man coming in, sitting down, and talking about the revolution-- and her undressing in front of him. He eventually realized, "I have this beautiful naked woman in front of me-- this isn't about the revolution right now." It's such a beautiful poem.

If I go all the way politicized, I become a zealot who's not allowed to have fun with the people and the community that raised me. But if I go the other way, I become an ignoramus who isn't properly qualified to speak on my community's behalf. Me and my girl go to the kids' school on Friday, then we go to the strip club Saturday night, and then we wake up and go to church Sunday morning, and we're back to business on Monday. That's my real life. At the end of the day, I'm a big black country motherfucker! All of that's gonna come with me. [laughs] I can't be all Public Enemy and not embrace my 2 Live Crew. You'll always see me at a political rally and the black strip club; I'm gonna represent smoking weed and I'm gonna represent supporting Trayvon Martin on my record, because I'm a whole man.

Pitchfork: You do mentiongoing to the strip club with your wifeon "Southern Fried"-- how did she react to hearing that for the first time?

KM: [To wife] How did you react? She's says, "It's our real life." She really is pretty as a singer, fine as a stripper-- strippers really do try to tip her. I know a lot of niggas say, "I rap real shit." But they don't-- they rap about a "G.I. Joe" episode. I rap real shit. I rap when I'm rich. I rap when I'm broke. I rap when I'm bullshit in the street. I rap about only having one woman now. If you can look at a continuum of my career, it's been an evolution of a real dude. So when I say I take my wife to the strip club, we're there, at the five-dollar joint. More than anything, I want people to take away that I'm not mainstream act. I'm not Tupac, Part 10. I'm Killer Kill from the 'Ville and this is all the way, 100% real.

Pitchfork: Your family plays a big role on R.A.P. Music, like on "Untitled", where you talk about their reactions to your imagined death.

KM: My family have always supported my rap-- and they know I love them when I rap about them-- but I'm just Michael to them. They care more about me. I express my love for them in a much more personal way on this record. It's about our conversations; my fear, and their advice. I know my sisters are gonna hear "Willie Burke Sherwood", which is named for my grandfather, and cry. I used to do music for me, because my ego needed it, but now I'm doing music for my family and friends who helped me become a rapper.

Pitchfork: Your kids are in high school now. When you're at the family dinner table, do they argue with you much?

KM: I've got a 14-year-old daughter who's like me reincarnated-- it's the most frustrating thing in my goddamn life right now. She's brilliant. I remember telling her on Halloween, "Why would you want to be Marilyn Monroe? Why would you want to be that white woman? Why don't you want to be Sojourner Truth or Harriet Tubman?" And she says, "My brother's going as Freddy Krueger, and you're not telling him to be Martin Luther King or Malcom X. We're kids, daddy." So she essentially exposed my sexism.

Pitchfork: You mentioned that when El-P gave you that first beat, you wanted to have him do the whole record. How did you originally connect with him?

KM: I knew about FuncrusherPlus, but I didn't know his situation. And, as a Southerner, you're always a little suspicious of New Yorkers.

Pitchfork: El-P is about as New York as it gets.

KM: I liked the fact that he talked short and abrupt. He wasn't slick. I tend to be the same way, and our friendship has been built off that, because it's very easy to communicate. When we got in the studio, before we started making music, we just conversed while listening to beats: talking about our influences, records we liked, opinions on hip-hop. At my core, I'm just a rap nerd. So we got the opportunity to build on that shit, and by the third day, when we were done with four or five demo joints, I just said to him, "Yo, you're going to do the whole record, right?" He was real resistant at first, but anybody who knows me knows I'm a persistent asshole. I just fucking called him every day that I thought about it. In the process, we built a friendship. And before I know it, I realized I just got paid to make a friend.

Pitchfork: What is it about El-P's beats that get you in a different mood than ones you've heard before?

KM: I've laid up in the middle of the night trying to understand it, but I can't. Basically: I'm supposed to be rapping over his shit. It's like O'Shea Jackson [Ice Cube] coming out of N.W.A., and someone saying, "You're going to meet these guys called the Bomb Squad and together you guys are going to dramatically change the way music sounds." I don't think either one of them would have predicted that. So I don't even question the "why." I'm just like: "Finally."

Pitchfork: A lot people forget that Ice Cube's AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted was a result of two different styles from different coasts coming together.

KM: This album could be like that with proper support, especially considering what's going on socially. We're 20 years past the L.A. riots, and there's still reason to riot. And I think we're headed there. On some levels, AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted is as relevant today as it was when it came out. And if enough people wake up to get [R.A.P. Music], you're talking about a social phenomenon happening with rap.

"I don't have to do like these other corny ass rappers and wait until a black boy is killed, and then make tribute records. To me, that's a bit insulting because you're ignoring the conditions that created it."

Pitchfork: "Don't Die", which centers around a story about bad cops and police brutality, was obviously made before the Trayvon Martin incident, but how did you feel about the song once that happened?

KM: I love the record because I know it represents the reality of young black men on a daily basis. Sometimes you just gotta get it out. It saddens me that these records are still relevant, but that's why I make them. I don't have to do like these other corny ass rappers and wait until a black boy is killed, and then make tribute records. To me, that's a bit insulting because you're ignoring the conditions that created it. Why not make the record warning that it can happen? I'm to the point where tribute songs almost feel disrespectful, because a tribute song without the willingness to really stand toe-to-toe and march with people is wasteful.

I'm not going to listen to any tribute songs. If you center it around Trayvon, you allow them to make the issue about him. The issue is about a social condition that allows black boys to be persecuted by the Terry Law, which says you can be stopped and frisked if you're seen as suspicious. Now, it's not even law enforcement enforcing the Terry Law, it's neighborhood vigilantes enforcing it and then hiding behind the Stand Your Ground Law. So why aren't rappers more in protest of the fact that, even if you're famous, you can still be stopped by hip-hop cops in New York and frisked for no fucking reason?

Pitchfork: As far as the L.A. riots and missing the bigger picture, Willie D from the Geto Boys released "Fuck Rodney King" for the same reason.

KM: Straight up. To act like L.A. was the only place it happened ignores the fact that we rioted in Atlanta and police attacked kids on the Atlanta University campus. We tried to get Atlanta the fuck back in 1992. But because it wasn't rapped about, you never heard about it. It has disappeared, but I'm here to say it happened. That's why my focus is always on the conditions that create social problems, not just a particular person.